Proving Paul's Promise

  “We all do what we have to do to survive,” I say.

  She snorts. I pass her a tissue because it almost comes out like a sob. “I was fifteen and completely alone.” She unwraps Kit and counts her toes and fingers. “She’s going to play guitar like her mom,” she says. “Look at these fingers.” Kit grips Friday’s finger in her sleep, and Friday wraps her back up.

  I don’t say anything because I don’t think she wants me to.

  “His name is Jacob,” she says. She smiles. “I have his footprints and his date of birth on my inner thigh. Pete did it for me.”

  Fucking Pete. He knew all this time and didn’t tell me. “Little fucker,” I grumble.

  “Pete knows the value of a well-placed secret.”

  I’m glad she had someone to tell her secrets to. I hope someday, it’ll be me. “I treasure your secrets. I’ll hold them close to my heart and keep them between us and only us, always.”

  She smiles. “I know.”

  She takes a deep breath, and I feel like she’s just relieved some of her burden.

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “No. I’m allowed to. It was an open adoption. But I never have.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m afraid that if I ever get my hands on him I won’t be able to let him go.” Her voice breaks again. “Or worse—what if I see him and he hates me? I wouldn’t be able to stand myself. It’s hard enough knowing that he doesn’t know who I am. If he hates me, too, I won’t be able to take it.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly.

  “I should have told you sooner. I’m very sorry I didn’t.”

  “You’re it for me. You know that, right?” I blurt out.

  The words hang there like a lit firecracker between us. I can see the fuse burning, and I’m just waiting for it to explode.

  “I know you want me to be it. But I’m not sure that I am. I think you can do better.”

  “I disagree.” No doubt about it.

  “Can you give me some time?”

  “How much?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll know when I know.”

  “I guess I’ll know when you know.” I chuckle. But my heart feels so much lighter. I meant to take her burden from her, but I know I didn’t because I don’t feel any heavier. If anything, I feel lighter, just knowing she shared with me.

  The door opens, and Emily and Logan walk back into the room. Logan looks from Friday to me and back, and then he smiles and his chest bellows with air.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Dude, I’m just glad she didn’t kill you. That’s all.” He makes a scratching like a cat motion with his hands and says, “Meow!”

  She fucking kills me every time she turns those green eyes on me. But I’d die a thousand deaths just for one look from her. “Are you ready to go home?” I ask her.

  She nods and hands Kit to Logan. He takes her, already looking like he’s comfortable with Kit. He’s her dad. I guess he should be. Logan kisses Friday’s cheek, and I pull Emily to me and hug her. “Thank you,” I say in her ear.

  Emily chucks my shoulder and doesn’t say anything.

  We walk out, and I realize that I can’t put Friday on the back of my bike because she’s pregnant, so I don’t even let her know it’s there. I flag a cab and get in it with her. I’ll get my bike tomorrow. I text Logan and tell him it’s there if he needs to use it. He replies and tells me that he’ll see to it.

  I pull Friday into me, and she lays her face on my shirt. Her hot breaths trickle down my collar and make me feel all warm inside.

  “Just give me some time,” she says quietly against my chest.

  I nod, and the bottom of my chin brushes the top of her head, so she’s aware that I’ve responded. She takes a deep breath and settles into me.

  When we get home, I really want to take her to my bed. I want to hold her and be sure she’s all right. But she says good night to me at her door, and she closes it behind her. I stand there and feel peaceful just knowing she’s safe in my house, close to me. And so are her memories.

  Friday

  It has been two weeks since I came clean to Paul, and it’s been two weeks since he’s kissed me. He holds my hand all the time, so much that I sometimes wonder if I’m going to sprout roots and just be permanently attached to him. But he hasn’t kissed me. Yes, we’ve cuddled on the couch, and I can feel his dick straining against his pants, straining against me, but he still doesn’t kiss me. His lips haven’t touched a single part of my body. Not even once. Not since I bared my soul to him.

  Tonight, I need his help with something, and I’m afraid to ask him so I call Garrett, instead. “Do you think you could come over and help me?” I ask.

  “What kind of thing do you need help with?” I can tell he’s busy because there’s noise and laughter in the background.

  “I need to be painted.”

  I hear a door close and the noise vanishes. “Say that again,” he says.

  “I need to be painted. Do you remember that contest I told you about? My model dropped out, and I have this kick-ass design I’ve worked on for the past month. I don’t want to miss out. It has a five-thousand-dollar prize.”

  “And you think I can paint you?” he scoffs. “I have no artistic ability whatsoever. I can’t even do crafts. None of them. I’m bad at them all.”

  “It’s just shading. I’ll transfer the design onto my skin, and then you just paint like a paint-by-numbers kind of thing.” I’m begging. But this design is seriously beastly, and I want to share it with the world. I can win. I know I can. “Don’t worry,” I plead. “I’m not even going to ask you to paint my boobs. I can do that part myself. I just need for you to do my back. Can you do it?”

  “I can’t,” he says. “We’re at an event for Cody’s work.”

  “Oh.” I let out a breath.

  “Why don’t you ask the stud muffin to do it? He’s a fucking artist, Friday.”

  “He’s also…like…boyfriend material.” I feel heat creep up my cheeks.

  “You mean he’s, like, totally fuckable.”

  I laugh. “That, too.” I walk out into the kitchen to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Paul is sitting on the couch so I whisper into the phone. “It’s just too intimate for us right now.”

  “He’s still withholding the goodies, huh?” Garrett laughs.

  I grumble softly and glance at Paul, who gives me a what-the-fuck look. I can tell he’s trying to hear what I’m talking about, but he’s trying not to let me notice. And I desperately don’t want him to hear me talk about him.

  “Ask him,” Garrett says. “Just do it.”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you ask a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have any!” I cry. Well, I have a couple. But Reagan is busy and Emily just had a baby two weeks ago, so I can’t ask her. My old college roommate, Lacy, is busy, too. I already tried her.

  “Go ask him. Then call me later and tell me how it goes.” He laughs, and then the line goes dead.

  “Well, fuck you very much,” I mumble at the phone. I’m incubating your fucking baby.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Paul asks. He turns the TV off and gets up. His long body gets even taller when he stretches his arms up over his head. I can see that little strip of skin below his T-shirt, and for the first time ever, I see that he has Kelly’s name there.

  “You have Kelly’s name on your belly,” I say, pointing like an idiot at his stomach. He tugs his shirt down and scowls at me.

  “So what?” he asks.

  “So, you have Kelly’s name on your belly,” I say again. I force myself to shrug. “That’s all.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Mmm hmm,” he hums. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Just Garrett,” I say. Just fucking Garrett who can’t help me out when I’m desperate. I take a sip of my water.

  I don’t know why it upsets me to know that Paul has Kelly’s name in
ked on his skin. But it kind of does. I’ve seen him without his shirt on before, but I’ve never noticed it until now. She was and always will be a big part of his life because they have a daughter, but it still gets under my skin. I hate that it does, actually.

  Paul jerks me from my thoughts when he asks, “And what did you ask Garrett to do for you? And why did he refuse? And why did he call me a stud muffin?” He grins and hitches a hip against counter.

  “How did you hear all that?”

  He shrugs. “Your volume was really loud.” He stares at me for a minute. I’m pretending that I didn’t hear him. He heaves a sigh and sings, “Fridaaaayy!” He waves his hands in the air wildly. “Earth to Friday.”

  “He calls you a stud muffin because you are one.”

  A dimple appears in his cheek. “Okay,” he says. “And the rest?” he prompts when I don’t say more. “What did you ask him to do?”

  I look around the room. There’s nothing I can use to distract him. “Is Hayley calling you?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes. “She’s with her mom this week. But nice try.”

  He’s not going to stop asking. “I asked him to help me with an art project,” I say. I may as well have just spilled my guts out.

  “What kind of art project?”

  I shrug. “There’s a contest going on at Bounce.” Bounce is a local club, and all the Reed brothers have worked there at one point or another as bouncers, so I know he’s familiar with the place.

  “What kind of contest?” he asks.

  “A paint contest?” I say. It comes out like a question, even though I didn’t mean for it to.

  “The fucking body paint contest?” Paul asks, and he slams his hand down on the counter. “Are you entering that?”

  “I already entered. And I had a model for it, but then she backed out at the last minute. Her grandmother died or something. I don’t know why her grandmother couldn’t have waited until after the contest, but I guess I don’t get any say-so.”

  He chuckles. “God, you make me laugh,” he says.

  I glare at him.

  “So your model backed out and you were going to do what? Paint Garrett?”

  “Umm, not exactly.” I raise a finger to my lips and start to nibble the nail.

  “Then what?” He throws up his hands.

  “I was going to have him paint me.” I look down the hallway. “Maybe Sam could do it. Is he here?” I start in that direction, but Paul grabs my arm and jerks me back. I fall against him.

  “There is no fucking way any man, even Garrett, is going to paint your naked body. No. Absolutely not.” He folds his arms across his broad chest and stares down at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “The entry fee was a hundred dollars and I spent a month working on the design. It’s perfect, and I think I can win. And just when did you become my father?” I ask. I pull back from him.

  “Trust me,” he says. “The last thing I want to be is your father.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  He pulls me to him again, and I feel his dick pressed against my lower belly. “Trust me,” he says again. “I don’t feel like a parent when I’m with you.”

  “Oh,” I breathe. My heart stutters, and I get this little flutter in my belly that only happens with him.

  “Oh,” he mocks. “I’m acting like a jealous boyfriend because I am one.”

  I close my eyes and say, “You haven’t even kissed me since I told you about Jacob.”

  “You told me you needed time,” he cries softly. “I’ve been right here waiting. Patiently, I might add.” He chuckles.

  “Well, quit being so patient!”

  He brushes my hair back from my face with gentle fingers and doesn’t say a word. He just stares at me, his eyes soft and full of something I don’t understand. I wish I did. It would make this so much easier.

  “So about this contest,” he says.

  “Reagan and Emily are both busy.”

  “There’s no one else you can get to model?”

  “There isn’t enough time to teach them the position.”

  “Position?” He grins.

  I shove his shoulder.

  “I’ll paint you.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll enjoy the hell out of it.” His dimple grows deeper and even cuter.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll be naked!” I cry.

  “I know!” he yells back softly. “That’s why I don’t want anyone else doing it!”

  Paul

  This is a really bad idea, and I know it before I ever step a foot into her bedroom. “Close the door behind you,” she says. Her voice quivers, and I fucking love that she’s this torn up over me painting her body.

  “Nobody else is here,” I remind her.

  “Someone is always here, or on their way here, or thinking about coming here.”

  She’s right, so I close the door. She has transfer sheets spread all over her bed. They’re arranged in a weird pattern, and I can’t quite make out what it is. “What are you going to be?” I ask.

  She smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “What am I painting you with?” I ask, as she pulls her shirt over her head. My mouth falls open, but she just clutches her shirt to her chest and turns her back to me. She pulls her hair to the side.

  “It’s that really thick latex paint. It’ll be like plastic when it’s dry.” She points to a sheet on the bed. “Let’s start transferring.”

  This part I know how to do. She used the same transfer sheets we use for tattoos. So, I lay them on her body at her instruction, and then move on to the next one. I do her rib cage while she holds tightly to the shirt.

  “Turn around,” she says, making a rolling motion with her finger pointed down.

  “Do I have to?” I pretend to sulk.

  “Turn,” she says again, more forcefully this time. I turn away from her and look toward her dresser. But she doesn’t realize that I’m facing the mirror. She drops the shirt and lays the transfers over her breasts.

  My mouth goes dry. I know I shouldn’t watch her, but I can’t fucking help it. She’s perfect. Her breasts are big for her small frame but firm. Her nipples are hard and pointing directly out in front of her. Her areolas are as big as silver dollars and round and I want so badly to go to her and take one in my mouth. I want to hear her cry out.

  She looks up, and I jerk my eyes from the mirror. “You can turn around now,” she says. She lifts the shirt back to her chest. Such a shame. I swallow hard and try to push down the lust that’s clouding my brain. She needs for me to paint her, not to fuck her.

  Her brow furrows. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I choke out. I clear my throat because my voice sounds gravelly. “Fine,” I say again.

  She shakes her head and turns her back to me. “All the spaces with a one in the center will be this fiery orange.” She holds a tray of paint in her hand until she sets it on a stool right beside us. “Are you sure you have time for this? It’s going to take a really long time.”

  “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.” Friday is almost naked with me in her bedroom. I could stay here for days. I dip the brush and get it close to her back. It’s almost a shame to cover up the phoenix tattoo. It’s purple and gray and rising from the ashes. “Did you draw this tattoo?” I ask, as I start to swipe.

  “Yes.”

  I keep painting. At least doing this, I get to explore all of her art. “It’s pretty. And moving.”

  “It’s me right after I met you,” she says. Her voice is soft and curvy, just like her body. “Having a job and a family, even one that wasn’t mine, made me stronger. I felt like I could finally carry on.”

  I explore the rest of her back as I paint all the ones. Then I move on to the two’s, and they’re purple. She smiles at me over her shoulder.

  “You’re doing great,” she says.

&
nbsp; “What’s this one?” I ask. I point to a deck of cards with a clown on the front. There’s a full house showing on the card faces.

  “Life’s a gamble.”

  “And this one?” I start to paint over her sailboat.

  “Someday,” she says quietly, “I’ll sail into the sunset.”

  “There are wedding rings on the sail?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to be married.”

  “Yes.”

  My heart kicks in my chest.

  “My back is my hopes and dreams. My front is my reality as I saw it at the time. Because I can face anything, as long as I let what happened to me push me forward.”

  Damn. I don’t even know how to respond.

  When her back is all covered, I scoot my chair to the side and she lifts her arm. “Just do the side. I can do the front.”

  I don’t respond, because I’m not stopping.

  She has a crashed sailboat on the front side of her belly. And right beside her pierced belly button is a deck of cards with a full house showing on the card faces. She had words like faith, hope and charity written on her back. And on her front, she has words like loss and a big F like you would see on a school paper. I don’t comment on those because she’s starting to squirm and I’m afraid she’ll make me stop.

  I hover over an empty bassinette. I look up at her and see that she has closed her eyes, so I paint over it.

  “I can’t figure out what we’re drawing.”

  She grins. “I know. Isn’t it great?”

  I chuckle. “If you say so.”

  I paint up the side of her neck, where there’s a turtle and skulls and other crazy shit that is so Friday.

  When there’s nothing left but her boobs, which are still covered by her shirt, she says, “My legs are going to be black.”

  “You’re not walking out on the stage naked,” I say. No way in hell.

  “No, I’m wearing black bathing suit bottoms.” She picks up a roller.

  “Good.” I’d hate to have to tie her to the bedpost. Well, actually, I’d love to tie her to the bedpost.